


Tiramisù

by stepantrofimovic



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Post-Season/Series 07, Spoilers, and just emotional communication in general tbh, because god knows we haven't seen much of that this series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23475694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: “Mrs Thursday cried when she read your letter.”A conversation over food in Venice.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse & Fred Thursday
Comments: 20
Kudos: 42





	Tiramisù

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for a brief mention of suicide (hypothetical, no details), and for past canon deaths (again no details). Also food.
> 
> Translations from the Italian are at the bottom. Oh, and tiramisu means pick-me-up, which feels relevant here.

They get back to shore – or whatever back to shore means given they’re still in Venice, where nothing is ever firm or stable and the mainland feels like a perpetually receding dream. But they’ve left San Michele, which means they’re back among the living, and not insignificantly, it means there is food to be found.

They find a bacaro near San Giovanni e Paolo that’s small but not too small – not a majority tourist spot, but not so hidden that the locals will resent them showing up. They’re sitting at a small, rickety table between the counter and a brick wall that seems to ooze dampness, but the place smells good and the prices are fair and honestly, they just need to eat. And to be away from any dead bodies for a merciful hour.

The menu has fewer than ten things on it, including pudding, and still Morse tries to order a soup. _Tenete della zuppa, per favore_. Seriously, lad.

“No, scusate. Prendiamo due spaghetti con le vongole, per favore, e poi aspettiamo per il dolce, magari. Grazie.”

It’s quite clear that the hostess didn’t expect Thursday to speak at all, much less speak better Italian than Morse. Oh well. His accent is dreadful, but he practices, he never stopped since – well. Since Luisa.

Morse doesn’t say anything about Thursday ordering for him. He stares sullenly at the table. Then he stares sullenly at the heaping plate of spaghetti. Then he takes his first bite, and something in him seems to melt, his eyes taking that hungry college boy’s gleam that Thursday has seen before, in his house, sometimes.

That’s what ends up prompting Thursday to speak. “Mrs Thursday cried when she read your letter,” he says, and he doesn’t quite immediately regret it, but neither does he enjoy the deer-in-the-headlights look that appears on Morse’s face.

The lad takes a moment to chew through a mouthful, then, “Why?”

It makes Thursday furious, the idea that Morse wouldn’t know. Then, again, can he really say it comes as a surprise. “She thought it was a suicide note.”

What comes after is… different, from what Thursday had expected. He had expected an excuse, or a barbed retort, or – well, anything but Morse starting to cry.

The lad drops his fork on his plate, a sound that seems to draw the attention of the entire room. There aren’t many people, but they all seem to be staring at them, as Morse just… sobs. He’s quiet about it, mind – Thursday has seen him cry loudly, yes, but drugs were involved that one time –, and he’s at least trying to hide it, turning his face to the wall, but he’s still definitely crying and Thursday hasn’t the faintest idea what to do.

The hostess, who was washing wine glasses behind the counter, stops. Then she puts down the glass. Then she hisses, in what Thursday thinks is a local accent but can’t be sure, “Vuole fare qualcosa, o lascia piangere il moroso? Per piacere!”

Well, that seals it, this may officially be the least dignified moment in Thursday’s life.

“Morse,” he tries. “Morse. Lad. _Endeavour._ ”

“I’m sorry,” Morse mumbles, like that’s _better_ somehow.

“I don’t even know what you are sorry about.”

That startles a laugh out of Morse. He gestures at himself. He’s somehow even more of a sight than usual, in his concert clothes that somehow managed to pick up a couple of mud stains, all rumpled and red-eyed and just, a mess. Thursday wonders if that’s what Oxford boys look like when the pressure gets the best of them – pathetic, overdressed children.

 _That’s an unkind thought, Fred Thursday_ , he thinks. _Not like you’ve done much better than him on this one._

“I’m sorry for making you come all the way here.” Morse has mostly stopped crying now. The sniffling, well, that will take a while. Doesn’t the lad have a blasted hanky on him. Apparently not, since he’s drying his eyes with the cloth napkin. Thursday surreptitiously checks that the hostess isn’t looking at them, and he’s met with a glare that could pin him to the wall.

“You’d be dead if I hadn’t come here.”

“I know,” and that’s a miserable expression if Thursday’s ever seen one.

“I’m not sorry I came.”

Morse nods and looks away.

“It wasn’t a suicide note,” he says, after a pause.

The answer comes so automatically it’s almost offensive. “I’m glad.”

 _That’s not enough_.

“I’m also sorry.” Morse tries to wave him away, but Thursday shoots him a warning look. “What you said about me in the letter. I didn’t treat you right in Oxford, and I haven’t apologised properly.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve put in for that transfer, I’m going to Woodstock.”

“You’re my bagman, Morse, it matters.”

“Not anymore, I’m not.” If Morse looked miserable before, now he looks that and like he thinks he deserves it to boot. _God damn it, Fred Thursday._

“That wasn’t fair to you.” From the look on Morse’s face, it’s like he’s never heard a man say those words to him in his life. Then again, he probably hasn’t. _You really bollocksed this one, Fred_.

“You were right about Sturgis,” Morse insists, doggedly.

“Yes. And you were right about the accidents. Had I listened to you, we could have saved Mrs Bright.”

“Mrs Bright was already dead by the time I had evidence.”

That’s what finally prompts Thursday to throw his hands up. “Fine, have it your way. What’s that supposed to mean? That you earned all of this?” He gestures around, then realises how incongruous it must look – if Morse has truly earned a large bowl of pasta in a hole-in-the-wall in Venice, well, that’s fine by him.

But Morse knows what he meant, it seems, because he turns his face towards the wall again. “Perhaps.”

“Bullshit.”

He can see Morse gearing up to argue again, but he won’t have it. “That’s bullshit and you know it. No one earns this. Another woman has died, and you’re allowed to be angry, you’re allowed to be – whatever on Earth you’re feeling now, I’m not saying I want to talk about it, but neither of us has earned this. Not another murder. You speak with some respect.”

Morse nods, and it almost looks like the end of the conversation, except the lad will always want to get the last word in. “I mean it. What I wrote in the letter. I was wrong.”

“And I didn’t do right by you.”

Morse nods again. He doesn’t look like he believes it. Thursday will have to say it again. He has so many things to fix, once they get back to Oxford. He needs to get the two of them back to Oxford, too – somehow he doubts Morse planned a return trip. That thought chills him to the bone – that Win may have been right about the letter.

He feels old, and tired. Maybe it’s time to retire, but then – CS Bright, of course.

He shakes his head. Doesn’t matter now. Morse is back to eating, conversation quite firmly closed this time, but Thursday isn’t particularly feeling the cold pasta at the moment. Then, on the other hand – “Any of these Venice vacations, you ever tried a real tiramisu?”

Morse allows himself a small grin as he flags the hostess.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the Italian:  
> "Tenete della zuppa, per favore": "Have you(semi-formal) got some(sic) soup, please" - more than slightly ungrammatical, but understandable.  
> "No, scusate. Prendiamo due spaghetti con le vongole, per favore, e poi aspettiamo per il dolce, magari. Grazie.": "No, sorry(semi-f). We'll have two plates of spaghetti with clams, please, and then we'll wait for dessert, maybe. Thank you."  
> "Vuole fare qualcosa, o lascia piangere il moroso? Per piacere!": "Are you(formal) planning to do something, or are you gonna let your boyfriend cry? Please!"


End file.
